


Blood + Sugar + Sex = Magic

by hannahrhen



Series: Sex Magic [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dungeon, Hand Jobs, Humor, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Milking, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 08:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony wakes up in a dungeon. He needs an escape. Loki needs ... ingredients. Things get dirty. </p><p>And at least one of them, apparently, has a cow kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood + Sugar + Sex = Magic

His eyes were still closed, but Tony already knew he was fucked.

He opened them anyway, because the cold metal beneath his body, the narrowly-spaced bars contorting him into a pretzel, and the smell of damp and minerals just weren’t evocative enough. Also, he felt like he was _swinging_.

With eyes opened: “Oh, crap.”

His hope of damp air and cold metal being some kind of cosmic sensory read-error faded as he took in the--motherfucking dungeon he was trapped in. His memory of anything after running for his suit earlier that--day? --week? was gone. So was his suit--Tony wore nothing but his blue boxer-briefs and a white tank. And he seemed to have been trapped in a--

“You have got-- _got_ \--to be kidding me.”

In an iron cage. Suspended off the ground and, yes, swinging, just a bit. It was only big enough to contain his body, but not comfortably. Maybe four feet tall, or a little more. Approximately three feet in diameter. He sat up gingerly as the chain connecting the cage to a hook in the stone ceiling shifted and swung. Even his careful movements had an unwanted effect: With a loud creak, the tilting cage floor sent him lurching toward the bars.

He thrust his hands out wildly, stopping his fall. “ _Shit_.”

It took him a minute, but he finally got enough balance to sit against the back of the cage, loosely cross-legged, with ankles and bare feet half-hanging out of the bars. Not swinging-lurching anymore, which had been goddamned undignified. A better position to evaluate the surroundings--look for escape.

The cage was hanging in a corner of what was very likely an underground room, judging by the moisture condensing on the walls. The walls themselves were crafted from rough, ugly stone blocks--dark gray, because _apparently_ the room wasn’t murky enough. The only entrance--or exit--appeared to be a series of steps cut from rock leading upward from a doorway along one wall.

There were _fucking torches_.

“Fucking. Torches,” he said to no one in particular, listening to the slight echo of his own voice reverberating off the walls. He realized a little late that he might be giving his captors unwanted clues to his health and state of mind, but …

“ _FUUUCK!_ ” He was in a fucking cage. In a fucking _dungeon_. He wasn’t sure if Frankenstein’s monster was going to be lowered from the ceiling, or if Dracula was going to rise from the floor. Whoever these douchebags were, they had studied their James Whale when picking--building?--their ridiculously cliched but still somehow fucking scary-ass dungeon. “Building” was a possibility; while the room looked authentic enough, it suffered from being a little too authentic.

Aside from sets of sturdy, tall wood shelves on several walls, the only other pieces of furniture were a rough, cloth-covered pallet on the floor in one corner and a heavy, huge table in the middle of the room--a polished wood, but scuffed and worn in a few places, with knobby swells and dips that reminded Tony of something out of an ancient castle. It sat just a few feet away, with some stools pushed around with little care.

Oh, and there was Tony’s Iron Man suit, free-standing in a shadow by the doorway like a suit of … uh, armor? _Greeeat._ It looked intact, which started to narrow down possible kidnapping culprits. Without specialized knowledge of the suit’s internal latches and joints, a regular criminal would have found it near-impossible to get it off Tony without some tools and force.

A regular criminal. An _irregular_ criminal, however …

Tony spent the next two minutes alternately hoping it was Loki (“the devil you know”) and hoping--God, hoping it wasn’t Loki (he knew _that_ fucking devil). Then, slapping himself aware, he studied the room again, this time looking for any opportunities he might have missed. Getting access to the suit meant (possibly) getting access to JARVIS, to reaching the team--a best-case scenario, assuming the connection was live, that it hadn’t been interfered with.

Before he had much further chance to plot, he heard a dull clunk and the sound of chains, a combination that suggested rather alarmingly that he’d find a trapdoor at the top of those steps. The implication that the entrance to this room was hidden was … well. He pulled his legs in closer to his body. Devil he knew versus devil he didn’t--either way, the situation was shitty. “Trapped by madmen” didn’t usually go too well for him.

He heard the footfalls from the open doorway, someone coming down the steps. Then: “Mr. Stark.”

Oh, yeah. _That fucking devil_.

Loki crossed the room to the table, barely sparing Tony a glance, just confirming that the human was still caged, Tony figured. The bastard was unarmored; instead, his appearance was pretty casual (for Elizabethan drama). Black trousers, non-puffy (thank God) off-white shirt. Hair somewhat less askew than when they last met. He looked perfectly in control--another crappy clue to this situation.

Time to get more info. Turning on what Cap called his most grating, know-it-all tone, he began.

“Well, this is kind of disappointing, you know. Unoriginal.” He enunciated each syllable. ”You couldn’t have picked a more cliched location for whatever evil you’re up to.” He gestured to the walls. “Torches? Really? Is this Transylvania? Are you a mad scientist? Are you--are you a _vampire_? … But seriously, Loki--fucking torches?”

A small, satisfied smile is the first sign that Loki is even listening to him. “What a shame. I thought you would appreciate seeing my laboratory--seeing what could be my laboratory, if I shared your interest in building and inventing, rather than--. Well.” Loki turned, leaned against the thick edge of the table surface, looked at Tony finally. “I built this place for your comfort, --so you could see how alike we really are, under the skin.”

Tony ignored--tried to ignore-- _that_ creepy implication. “‘Alike.’ Are you putting on the Hendrix down here and smoking some of that herb?” He gestured toward the table, then a flick toward the walls. “Because, again: torches.”

“Hm. Similarly wired, then--is that a metaphor that speaks to you? Both curious, both with almost-criminal”--Tony snorted at that--“resources at our disposal, both accused of using our natural intelligence as a weapon. And, speaking of ‘disappointed,’” Loki said, approaching the cage. He lifted a single finger, touched one of the bars next to Tony’s knee--and pulled open a hingeless door. That was unexpected. The smirk, of course, was not. “You didn’t even try, did you?”

Tony considered hiding his self-disgust, but gave it up, shaking his head and scowling. “Goddamn it.” He carefully slid out of the cage, which upended him disloyally. He stumbled a bit as his feet touched the floor too fast.

“I had it built for Clint Barton--as a present,” Loki offered. “He liked to watch me when he was working--protect me, he said. I thought it would be fitting, to put my little bird of prey in a cage, let him guard me to his own satisfaction. I never had a chance to gift it to him … unfortunately.”

Creepy fuck. Though Tony had to admit, being free of the implement of torture took the edge off his fight-or-flight response--and boosted his curiosity. He rolled the balls of his feet on the cold, uneven floor--stretched his legs. One deep breath before proceeding: “So, setting aside the reason you wanted my company--for now--what exactly are you up to here?” He approached the table, tapped one finger on the surface, then two, back and forth, an SOS for his nerves.

“I’m crafting a spell, and I need a place to gather and combine ingredients.” A pause, and then he began again in a tone Tony really didn’t like. “In that same vein, do you want to know why you’re here?”

Loki picked up a small knife next to a bowl on the table.

“No,” Tony offered quickly.

Too late. “I need ingredients,” Loki repeated with a grim smile. He gave Tony an expectant look, and, when no response came forth, turned his attention to the materials on the table. He set the knife back down, but pointedly as far from Tony as possible.

Tony found himself unusually silent--every word and phrase that would have spilled from his mouth not. actually. helpful as Loki upended some dried leaves onto an old alchemist’s scale, brushed his hands together swiftly to clean them off.

Vampire. He fucking knew it.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Finally: “Look.”

The liar-god looked up, small bottle of pale-blue dust clutched in one hand after he’d extracted a pinch of whatever it was, tossed it in the bowl casually.

“I really don’t think I can let you--use my parts for whatever the fuck evil magic you’re cooking here. I’m just--I’m not good with that.”

“Oh!” Loki threw on an expression of mock-surprise. “No?” A mocking hum. “Well, it’s good, then--for me, I mean--that you don’t have a choice, Mr. Stark.”

“Now--wait--”

“It’s good for you that this spell isn’t actually intended to harm you or yours or anything you care about--your wealth, for example.” As he talked, Loki continued to add small amounts of herbs and minerals to the bowl, at one point picking up and dropping a scattering of seeds and possibly some kind of tiny bone.

“Hey--” Tony let it go. “No harm? What’s it for, then?”

“Just a maintenance spell. A potion--if you will--to protect something of value to _me_.”

Tony had to admit, he wanted to know what this fucker was going to do, since he--and Tony inwardly cringed at his own unprecedented stupidity here--the _Liesmith_ seemed to be telling the truth. Still: “Why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t, really.” He set the last bottle down, turned to Tony, and then took a step closer. “But, as I said, you have no choice. And it will cause you no harm--no permanent harm, anyway. I will return you to your band of heroes … eventually.”

By the time Tony tried to pull away, it was too late. Loki seized Tony’s wrist, pulled him close, tucking Tony’s forearm under a bicep and pressing it in place with implacable strength. He extended it fully over the table.

Over the god’s shoulder, Tony quickly scanned the articles on the table--the rough bowl, vials of dried herbs and multicolored drifts of powdered mineral. The knife. Tony tried to get some purchase to pull away again.

“Oh, god, I’m not going to like this.” He grimaced at Loki’s chuckle.

“A key ingredient of this little spell: blood.” Ignoring the ineffectual resistance, the liar-god positioned Tony’s hand over the bowl, flipped it so his palm faced up, used the hand from the same arm that pinned the smaller man to force his fingers open and out. Tony continued to tug, but with no real result. Loki still took the knife, still lifted it, still dragged the bright blade across Tony’s exposed palm.

The pain was bracing, but not brutal. Could have been worse. Still _could be_ worse, he reminded himself.

Tony watched the blood from his hand drip into the bowl, hardly noticing when Loki turned his head to face him. “You haven’t bathed,” he said thoughtfully.

Shocked, Tony tried to pull his hand back from where it dripped over the bowl. “I--Christ, really? I was busy. I was _working_. And then it’s not like I have time to shower when Fury--”

“It’s pleasant, Stark. Mortal. Natural.” He paused--inhaling? “Male.”

Tony’s blood warmed. “BO kink, huh?” He somehow felt Loki roll his eyes. Continued: “You know, there’s a story about Napoleon--could be apocryphal. He was coming home from one of his campaigns, and he wrote his wife a letter. Told her--” His breath hitched as Loki squeezed his fist again over the bowl, more blood flowing freely. “He told her, ‘Don’t bathe.’”

A low hum was his reply.

God, his hand stung. “I mean, could be apocryphal, and who the hell knows what he really meant--”

“He meant he wanted to fuck his wife in all her unperfumed glory.”

He forgot about his hand. “--uh, maybe. That’s what ... yeah.” They were standing too damned close to pursue that topic, and nevermind that he had introduced it. He used a finger on his dripping hand to point to a large jar with shaker holes. “Hey, is that a sugar--”

“Yes. … Well, that should do it,” Loki said, shaking Tony’s hand over the bowl. Tony glanced down--no more than a tablespoon or two of his blood in the bottom, but it still wasn’t his favorite sight. Plus his hand was going to hurt like a motherfuck--

A slight burn in his palm, and his hand was healed. Loki released his arm.

“Thanks?”

“Of course.” A pause, then Loki moved to face him. “Next, I need your seed.”

“My, uh--what? …” Tony’s brain caught up. “Oh, God.”

Loki’s hands moved to his chest, fingertips landing on Tony’s pecs, his arc reactor--pushing. Pushing him toward the corner of the room.

Tony looked backwards, feet shuffling on the floor as he was forcefully directed. “So, you--you really need me to, uh--” He made a hand gesture.

“No, _I_ need to do it.”

Okay, so … maybe his cock woke up a bit at that idea. Just a bit. Tony’s brain, on the other hand, wanted convincing. Needed it. His heels hit the edge of the pallet, and he swayed backwards before he caught himself.

“You need to … Uh-- _nuh-uh_. There is no universe in which--”

“It’s sex magic, Stark. Not pathetic-halfwitted-lonesome-fumbling magic. Be glad it doesn’t require me to penetrate you in the middle of the woods in the light of the full moon.”

“Are there actually--”

“Yes. There are. But not for any magic you’d want to be a part of.” A pause, followed by an insinuating smile. “Yet.”

Tony knew his slippery slide down the moral slope was obvious to his teammates, but he lamented that their number-one nemesis could see it so easily.

“Hey, I’m not--”

“On your knees, Stark. Actually, hands and knees. I’ll be behind you.”

“I thought you said--”

“Just so I can milk you. Your virginity is safe.”

The word “milk”--in that context--and the resulting calliope of images of Loki behind him, over him, his grip hard and efficient on Tony’s cock, made Tony’s head swim a little, but he didn’t drop to his knees (yet). Instead, he focused on the the disdainful tone Loki used. Tony felt the need to defend himself. “Hey, Kinsey would identify me as at _least_ twenty-five-percent backdoor man, thanks.”

Tony caught a raised eyebrow--intrigued? But Loki just continued: “Then, kneel.” A hand on his chest pushed Tony two steps onto the padded surface.

After shooting Loki a dirty look--”I see what you did there”--Tony did as asked. The rough cotton weave stuffed with hay prickled his knees and shins, then his palms as he settled on all fours. Loki clearly was going for realism here, though the surface was clean and dry and probably much softer than usual, uh, dungeon pallets? He didn’t remove or even pull down his briefs. Might as well leave some work to the snarky immortal bastard. And he said as much out loud.

“I have every reason to understand my parents were married, Stark.” Loki settled behind him, unseen, a delicate ping as a glass vial was set on the floor near them. Dry, cool hands skimmed down his hips, catching the elastic band of his briefs and smoothly baring Tony’s ass, his thighs. The underwear bunched at his knees.

Tony swallowed as he felt his cock take an interest in the proceedings, even though he was being lined up to be--ugh--milked like a cow. He screeched the record back in his head, started over. No, like a _snake_. Yes. Like a poisonous cobra being used violently, desperately for a precious antivenom--yeah, that worked better. Hotter--

Of course, Loki ruined it. “My pretty milk-cow,” he teased with a strange tone, petting Tony’s back and side gently. “If I ply your udder, are you going to give up what I need for my spell?”

“Aw, fuck you!” Tony dropped his head, skin prickling with embarrassment and face flaming. Loki laughed. Pervy fuck.

Positioned on his left side, Loki reached one hand under Tony’s body, touching him gently, feeling for whether Tony were uninterested--he wasn’t--or … He closed a fist around Tony’s rising cock, using his other fingers, hand, forearm to stroke down Tony’s back, over his ass. Tony’s hips and knees locked in place as Loki’s hand moved over his length. It was an amazing stroke from this angle, hard at the base, gentler up the shaft, with a little thumb sweep over the head that had him biting back groans. He spread his knees further so he could better feel his balls, heavy and swaying between his legs.

Loki knew something about milking cows--uh, snakes. Big, terrifying, masculine snakes.

As the pleasure built, Tony exhaled through his nose, kept his head down to concentrate on the feeling and try--try--to forget the evil fucker behind him giving him this.

“Must you make it so hard for me, Stark?” Loki asked. “It’s sex magic--more powerful if it’s actually sex. Come now, I want to feel you fuck my fist.”

“Oh, god, you dirty ... Fine--God, fine.” Tony gasped, finally giving in to the involuntary rhythm, to thrust into Loki’s grip. It was, admittedly, heaven. “Not--uhhh … not long … “ He felt the liar-god shifting on his knees, leaning over Tony’s back, reaching his right arm over Tony’s far side to grasp his cock, and retrieving his now-supplanted left hand to grope for the vial.

The changed position left Tony covered by a pervy Norse blanket and brought Tony’s ass in contact with Loki’s groin. He pushed back a bit--enough to maintain plausible deniability--and, yes, the god was clearly sporting his own hard-on at this little tableau. The realization had nothing to do with Tony suddenly shoving even harder into Loki’s fist. Definitely nothing to do with the wanton, humiliating moan that escaped him.

Loki pressed his nose behind Tony’s ear, breathing in his (apparently generous) scent. Tony heard a pleased sigh. “Ah, as delicious as you are, little cow, I shouldn’t lose sight of why we’re doing this … “

At the last minute, seeing Loki’s hand holding the vial in the corner of his vision, Tony tried to pull back, suddenly cursed with a burst of sanity in this screwed-up situation. But by then it was too late, and he shot his load into the glass Loki held beneath him with one hand, his other stroking over Tony’s sac as he aimed his cock where he was needed.

“You--fucking--psycho,” Tony gasped. “ _Fuuuuck._ ”

Then, it was over: “Oh, Jesus.” The vial barely had been pulled away before Tony’s chest and shoulders collapsed to the pallet, ass still in the air. He rolled over into a curve on the cotton ticking, blinking at Loki, who had stood and was making his way back to the table.

“I will say it again: You are a kinky fuck.”

“And you just spilled your seed at the hand of your greatest enemy while role-playing a dairy cow.” He paused. “In a dungeon.”

“Touché.”

Loki used some sort of wooden dowel to scrape the fluid from the vial into what was now the most disgusting substance Tony could imagine, barring actual excrement--and, God, he hoped that was as close as they came to realizing that unfortunate mind blip. Of course, once his brain had a hold on that, it helpfully supplied every other disgusting thing that could possibly--

“This is done, Stark. You can wipe that appalled look off your face now.”

“Ah, good--”

He murmured some incomprehensible words over the bowl, which flashed a golden orange color before settling. “I just need you for one more thing.” He dipped his hands into the bowl, staining his fingers with--(“Shut the fuck up, brain,” Tony supplied.) He walked over, hands in front of him. “Stand up.”

“Oh, shit.” But, in for a penny, in for a pound--Tony stood, wobbling a little by the pallet.

Loki pressed those--disgusting--fingers to the sides of Tony’s face, into his hairline, above his ears. Gripped his head in his hands and said a few more words, and the golden flash recurred, but this time seemed to envelop the whole room--or just Tony. His body--every organ, every muscle--felt a jolt, a pulse, a warmth … and then settled. Stopped.

Except--

“What did you do?” A surge of energy beneath Tony’s skin felt like restlessness, a need to move. “What did you _do_?!”

Loki studied him, then seemed to be satisfied with the outcome. “Made you a little harder to kill. That’s all.”

“That’s--. Wait-- _what_? Why?!”

“Why not?” Loki’s hands fell away, and Tony noticed they were unsoiled again. He touched his own temple and found no trace of residue--was the same clean (or not, as Loki had pointed out) as he’d been before.

“No, really--why?”

Loki looked at him. “You are stupid.” Not the answer he expected. “You speak when you should remain quiet. You stay when you should run. When your enemy makes to attack you--you offer him a drink. You should have said no today, Stark--you should have fought me.”

“I couldn’t fight you. I wouldn’t win without the suit.”

A smile, and Tony suddenly remembered the cage door. “Perhaps. Still, you trusted--enough. You were curious. Enough. That counts for something.”

“Really? You did this because you found me worthy?”

“Perhaps?” He shrugged. “Or ... it could be the other reason.”

“... What--other reason?”

Loki pulled Tony against him, hips flush, Loki’s … interest still evident. “To make sure we get a chance to do this again.” He favored Tony with a dark look. “I do so want to try that spell in the woods.”

Yeah. Tony already knew he was fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another dark, angsty fic that got derailed when the author was struck by a pornado and a dose of Stark snark. What are you gonna do? (Write snarky dungeon porn, apparently.)


End file.
